


Shipwrecked

by Drowned_dreamer



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Romance, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drowned_dreamer/pseuds/Drowned_dreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones had a lifelong obsession with the sea, but his fear of drowning had always prevented him from sailing. After another tragedy strikes, he decides it's time to face his fears. However, fate has a cruel sense of humor. Or maybe not. Especially when a mysterious beauty saves him from a watery grave. Who is she? Was she a hallucination? Or is there such a thing as soulmates and miracles after all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding On

**Author's Note:**

> A/N- Okay, so the last thing I needed to do right now was to start a new story, but this is a two-shot that I just couldn't shake. Also, can't stop writing AU's for CS for some reason. Maybe because I've been listening to way too much 10cc's "I'm Mandy (Fly Me)". Who knows? Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Sadly.

All his life, Killian Jones was fascinated by the sea. It had always seemed so big and mysterious, he was sure it must be magical. When he was only a wee lad, his mother would take him to the beach and they would watch the waves crash upon the shore, while the icy water swirled around their toes. She would tell him tales of shipwrecked sailors saved by mermaids, and that feeling of wonderment kept growing. When his mother died, he stopped going to the beach to dig his feet into the sand, but the love of the ocean never left. It reminded him of what he loved.

As he grew, so did his passion. He delved into maritime history like it was a sumptuous feast. He researched marine life, and became intricately knowledgeable on the workings of a many a ship. His brother, Liam, used to stop by his room and laugh at the posters of sea life on every wall, the ancient maps and charts that adorned his ceiling. Killian would only scowl and throw his pillows at him, shouting at him to mind his own business, because deep down, Killian knew why his brother mocked his passion. It wasn't jealousy or brotherly teasing, it was because he was worried. After all, how could he be so obsessed about the one thing he was completely terrified of.

For it was a well-known fact that Killian Jones was deathly afraid of drowning. For all his interest and research, he had never once been out on the water. He had never gone sailing and never swam in lakes or oceans. And it was odd because he never knew exactly when the fear had started, or what had caused it, but he was unable to break it. All his life, the one thing he wanted he was too frightened of to ever do.

As a young man, Killian took the sensible approach. After his father had left him in Liam's care, he decided to study business in order to preserve the family honor, and he quickly became successful. Even so, when he was transferred to New York from London, he took an airplane, practically knocking himself out with booze so that he wouldn't keep worrying about what would happen if the plane went down over the ocean. And still, he couldn't stop from dreaming about the sea.

Then tragedy struck, and struck again. In quick succession, he lost his brother to a military blunder and his fiancé, Milah, to brain aneurism. After her death, Killian spiraled down into a deep depression. He was utterly alone now, and there was no one to ease the pain. Only the ocean. Everyday, he would walk along the shoreline, and focus his thoughts on how its great expanse never faltered, never wavered in its purpose. He let the slate grey waters swallow up his agony and the concussion wash of waves drown out his cries. Until one day, something deep within him stirred.

It wasn't courage to face his fears, it wasn't a brave attempt at conquering the unknown, it was far more primal than that. He knew he had to go to sea, he had to finally get out on the water and feel the rock of the waves beneath him, to be encompassed by the infinite beauty of the ocean. It would be the only thing powerful enough to fill the chasm in his soul. Otherwise, he might as well curl up and die, for there was no reason for him to go on.

So, one year after the loss of Milah, five years after Liam, and twenty-six years after his mother, Killian Jones decided he would face his fears.

….

The yacht's name was _Rum Runner_. He thought it was a terrible name for a boat, but it was the only one Killian could get on short notice and with his limited funds. It was large enough for six guests, but for this trip, Killian would be the only one traveling. Its crew consisted of a bearded captain named Duke (an older fellow with a white beard like Santa and the belly to match), a first-mate/engineer/repairman named Big George (a tall, slim man with deep brown eyes that were well-etched by many days in the sun), and a steward named Mike (who was about as plain and average as his name implied). Killian instantly felt at ease with their sea-hardened personalities. They were no-nonsense blokes who lived and breathed the salty air and, even though all three were gruff and fairly unfriendly, he felt quite safe in their hands.

 _Rum Runner_ was to set out from New York on a planned cruise along the Atlantic shoreline of just under three weeks. The destination was the tip of the Florida Keys, a short stay at Islamorada, and then back. Killian really couldn't care less about the destination. He just wanted the trip, he wanted to be out on the water, to finally experience the secrets of the ocean for himself.

As the yacht made ready to leave port, Killian found himself growing more and more nervous. He had loaded himself on deck with relative ease, unloaded his baggage in his berth with no upwelling of panic and had re-emerged on deck fairly content. Maybe all his fears would be gone. After all, he was technically on the water, he had come to terms with the swaying motion of the ship quickly, and so far had not even raised his pulse rate. But all that quickly changed. As the ropes were unfastened and the boat pulled away, as the last sure tether to dry land retreated farther and farther from his grasp, Killian felt the rising surge of panic in his breastbone. Maybe this wouldn't be as easy as he thought. Still, he knew he had to keep going, to fight away the fear. He closed his eyes, focused his grip and his mind on the gentle bobbing motion and tried not to think about water filling up his lungs, how the burning need for oxygen would burn your chest, or what the last fleeting thoughts a person might have as the world faded to black and the water surrounded them might be. No, he definitely did not think those things at all.

"Y'alright there?" Came a low chuckle. "Ya look a bit green." Killian turned to see the sandy-haired steward smirking at him from a seat on the deck.

"I'm fine," Killian managed, turning away from the sight of the shore receding away and back to the horizon where it seemed as if the world just ended in a straight black line. He tried and failed to keep his voice from rising in pitch.

"First time t'sea?"

"Aye," Killian stated, clenching his jaw and his hand as the yacht coursed over a particularly large wave left by the passage of some sort of freighter. It took several deep breaths and an even tighter grip on the steel railing before his heart rate slowed to non-heart attack levels.

Mike chuckled and made his way smoothly to where Killian was standing. "You should let go of that rail."

"What?" Killian cried, hating how obvious the panic in his voice was to his ears.

The man's eyes crinkled as he smiled, another victim of a life lived at sea. "Let go of the rail and let yourself move naturally with the waves. Don't fight it so much. Otherwise your body will never adapt."

Killian glared at the man, wanting to tell him to bugger off, but he was forced to acknowledge Mike was probably right. It didn't matter though, he couldn't let go if he tried. His hands were practically melded to the metal.

The steward shrugged indifferently and began to walk away. "Suit yourself, man. But this trip's gonna be hard to enjoy if you can't even walk about the ship."

 _I'll let go when I'm bloody well ready, mate, and not a moment before,_ Killian thought angrily. If only he knew when that would be.

Soon enough, the harbor was only a faint blur and the little boat was nothing more than a spec in a wide wet world. The sun above beat down in a friendly manner, encouraging the crew to shed their jackets and don their hats. Killian had a hat and sunglasses. They were packed up in his things below deck. He couldn't help but think how lovely it would be if he could see anything besides the glare of the sun on the water, or be able to wipe the sweat from his brow. But for that, he would have to walk over the deck, down the stairs, and into his cabin. And to do that, he would need to let go.

Let go. Easy enough in theory, but in practice…

It was then that Killian realized something vital. What was holding him back wasn't the motion of the ship, it was everything else. It was his own bloody insecurities and fears. This was what he had come out here to fight, to find a way to get on with his life. If he couldn't do a simple thing like release his tenuous hold on his perceived safety net, then nothing would ever change for him. He would still just be a lonely, broken soul, and he might as well just jump right into the water and save himself years of unnecessary pain.

So Killian let his grip loosen. At first, nothing happened. The boat didn't shudder, storm clouds didn't gather overhead, an iceberg didn't appear out of thin air. Nothing. The world kept on spinning. He took a deep breath, relaxed his aching knuckles, and lifted his left hand. _See, Jones, everything's fine. You're not about to go toppling overboard just because you aren't holding on. Now, let's say we see about that other hand, eh mate?_ Quickly, before he could talk himself out of it, he loosened the fingers of his right hand and pulled it away. And there he stood, detached, finally relying solely on his own balance, almost unable to believe he had actually done it. A great, shuddering breath came from his lungs, and he looked up and smiled at the sun, running his hands through his black, sweat-soaked hair. It was a victory, a small victory, yes, but a victory.

Killian took a step back, acquainting his steps with the sway of the boat. He forced himself not to reach out when he felt his balance slipping, and soon enough, his body relaxed into it, exactly as Mike had promised. If the rest of the crew noticed the proud smirk on his face, they said nothing. He nodded to them anyway as he made his way to the stairwell.

Below the ship, it was cooler and dark. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust, the black pupils diminishing into the cornflower blue of his iris. The hall in front of him was narrow and poorly lit, but it somehow brought him comfort. The enclosed space felt secure, felt almost like he could ignore the fact that he was hovering above a million feet of water. His berth felt even safer. A small bed with crisp white sheets, a narrow closet, and an even smaller bathroom surrounded him completely, comforting him much like an embrace. He flopped back on the bed, placing his arms behind his head and allowing himself to relish in all that he accomplished today. He had really done it. He was sailing. On the ocean. Finally. He chuckled softly to himself, and stroked his dark, scruffy cheeks, a familiar gesture he had adopted when Liam had first left to join the army.

Killian closed his eyes and thought about his brother. Liam would have been proud of his younger brother today, he had no doubt. How often had he teased Killian about his irrational fear? How often had he tried to show him there was nothing to worry about? "At last, brother," Killian told the air.

And Milah, she too would have been proud. He could just see her, her wide grey eyes meeting his in joy, her graceful lips turned up in a teasing smile. He could still hear her, too. "I can't believe you did it, Killy!" She would say, lovingly running a hand over his cheek.

His smile faltered, his own hand poised on his jaw. And the ache of their loss rushed back on him. He had been so focused on this journey, he had been able to block out the sense of loss that had been his constant companion for so long. But he felt it now. They weren't here with him, but they should be. What did it matter if Liam and Milah were proud of him? It was irrelevant. He would risk their disapproval and reproach every day for the rest of his life if only they would walk through that cabin door.

Turning over onto his side to face the wall, Killian curled up, hoping to alleviate the torment in his chest. Squeezing his eyes tight, he forced away the image of Milah's bright eyes and his brother's soft smile. Instead, he tried to focus on the slight swell of the boat, the way the gentle rocking was lulling him to sleep, and soon, he mind drifted away.

…

It had been an amazing week. A week of endless horizon, a week of strong sea air, and with each passing day, Killian gained more and more confidence aboard the ship. He now walked about on deck just as steadily as any of the rest of the crew. He helped fish and make meals with the steward. He learned to navigate from the first mate, Big George, who told him he was a natural, and he even steered once or twice. He had yet to actually get into the water, but he sensed he could do that, too, in time.

He and the crew were starting to get along better. They still teased him mercilessly about his anxiety when they left port, but he was beginning to give as good as he got, and a slow comradery had formed. He regaled them with his extensive book knowledge of all things _mare maris_ , they plied him with many tales from their long days and nights about the _Rum Runner_. Killian finally found out that Captain Duke had named his ship that because he was descended from a long line of bootleggers and pirates. Killian was starting to believe the bearded man to be one of the most fascinating people he'd ever met.

Through all this, Killian had managed to keep the darkness at bay, shutting out the memories that had tried to haunt him by remaining focused on everything around him. He knew the second he made it back home, it would probably all come rushing back, but for now, it was enough.

At night, Killian would take his meal on the deck of the ship, staring off into the expansive sky. His favorite time was just after sunset, when the sky was full of the brightest stars he had ever seen, yet still tinged orange and purple by the last rays of daylight. And it was so peaceful out here. So quiet. The more time he spent staring off into the liquid void, the more it felt like that bottomless ache in his heart was beginning to mend, although sometimes, he wondered if the ocean was big enough to wash away all his pain.

On the eighth night, a storm blew up. None of the crew seemed particularly worried, and therefore Killian didn't as well. He had learned to trust their judgment after that very first day. So he watched the approaching clouds with a sense of awe, not fear, even though he could feel the hairs rise along his arms. It was unsettling, though, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something major was going to happen. But he told himself it was nothing more than the electric current of the thunderheads, and tried his best to ignore it.

The waves increased, the boat rolling more and more. The crew merely laughed at him, watching his face go from embarrassed red to pale white in seconds, and he did his best to find his sense of calm. He watched how the crew handled the storm. They all seemed to look at the giant thunderheads as a challenge, a way to prove to themselves they were fierce and brave. Killian tried the same, but still found himself clinging to the rails again and hating himself for it.

A loud crack of thunder startled him, and made his whole body unnerved. He couldn't fight back the growing fear that something was coming, that this storm was not just a normal storm. Yet he knew logically that if the rest of the crew weren't worried, his fears were probably unfounded. After all, what experience did he have with such things? And he was so sick of living with constant anxiety. So he tried to force out the worry. He remembered Mike's advice from that first day. Let go. He looked down at his hands clutching the rails, periodically illuminated by streaks of lightning. He needed to let go, like before. First one hand, then the other. Just open the fingers and pull away.

He took a breath, closed his eyes, and willed his hands to come unclenched.

Right then, there was a crack so loud, he was toppled back by the force of it. The whole ship lurched dramatically and he looked up to see the crew scrambling to the port side of the boat. Killian's stomach dropped out. He didn't need to know what they were shouting, the horrified looks on their faces told him all he needed to know. That and the way the yacht was now listing at an angle steep enough to be noticeable.

No doubt about it, the _Rum Runner_ was going down.

…

Somewhere in the back of his head, Killian knew he should feel afraid. All of his nightmares were coming true. Wasn't this exactly what he had been afraid of all these years? Wasn't this exactly why he had avoided sailing?

It was the bloody trifecta of disaster. There was a tremendous storm raging in the dark, the boat he was on was sinking, and the lightning strike had started a fire somewhere near the engine room. But for some reason, facing the imminent possibility of his own death had flipped something inside him. He simply felt no fear.

Actually, he felt no emotions at all, but that was something he would have to examine later. Presuming there was a later.

Captain Duke was radioing for help, Mike was scrambling with the life boat and necessary supplies, and somewhere below deck, Big George was trying to douse the fire in the engine room before it could get to the fuel tank. Killian wasn't sure what he should be doing, but when Mike started yelling at him to get in the raft, his mind was made up.

Big George was below deck, standing in two feet of cold water, trying to stem the oil fire by dousing it with an extinguisher and clearly failing. Killian rushed to his side, asking what he could do to help.

George merely frowned at him and pulled him back towards the hatch. "At this point, ship's a goner. Let's just get the hell outta here before the whole thing blows."

And that was the last thing Killian heard before the explosion sent him away into darkness.

….

Coming too, Killian realized several things very quickly. One, he was still alive. Two, he was neck deep in water, but was still aboard the ship. Three, it was completely, utterly, blindingly dark. He shouted out for George, Mike, or Duke, but his words came back muffled as if he was in an enclosed space. He could hear was the creak and groan of wood, and the distant roar of thunder, so he knew he hadn't been knocked out for long. Suddenly, it dawned on him exactly where he was.

Killian was trapped under the hull of the ship. The rapidly sinking ship. Already, he could feel the way the space seemed smaller, the air pressing tighter than when he awoke just minutes before. He needed to find a way out, the door, a hole, anything that would lead him to the surface, but here in the darkness, he had no way of finding his way to safety.

It dawned on him that he was going to die. He was going to be slowly suffocated under the water and drown in the ocean. _How bloody fucking ironic._

Again, he wondered why he wasn't more afraid. Did he really just not care about his life anymore? Who was there to miss him if he was gone, anyway? Maybe that was why his emotions had shut down. Maybe he had finally snapped and just accepted that he would be better off dead.

Except, when he really thought about it, he didn't feel like giving up. He felt like fighting, like beating back the darkness with every fiber of his being. He wanted to live, he realized. He wanted to live badly. Too bad fate seemed to have other plans for him at the moment.

 _Damn._ The water was up to his chin now and the air was growing stale. He had minutes left at best. Treading water, he reached out for the edge of the ship, trying to trace its contours with his fingers to find a way out. As he searched, he felt a warmth upon his cheeks. Why was he crying? Was it because reality was sinking in and he knew that this was it?

Well, bugger that! Steeling his jaw, he doubled his resolve and decided no matter what he wasn't going to give up.

With trembling fingers, he outlined the curve of the wall, finding no gaps, only a roof getting closer and the water getting higher. Inches left to his life. Seconds, not minutes.

His head dipped below the surface against his will. He rose up, fighting for the last few gulps of air. Fighting. He just needed to keep fighting. With his last mouthful of air, he yelled out, "HELP!" as loudly as he could.

But it was too late.

And he was swallowed up by the sea, welcomed into the dark.

It burned his lungs.

It froze his skin.

His eyes saw nothing but the ghosts of his past floating next to him.

Endless black.

And then…

Light!

A dazzling burst of light surrounding him, pulling him up.

A golden, shimmering light in the shape of a hand, stretching out and beckoning on to take it.

Finding one more hidden reserve of strength, he outstretched his fingers towards the hand and grabbed on.

…

The ache in his chest subsided as air reached them again. His muscles pumped away in the cold water, keeping him afloat. And above him, a canopy of stars welcomed him back. He blinked, shaking the wet hair out of his eyes and looked up.

Floating, no, _standing_ upon the water was a woman. Her hair glowed like starlight and her eyes met his with sad understanding. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And in her eyes, he saw his own loneliness reflected back.

Finding his voice somehow, he called out, "Are you an angel?"

She shook her head in confusion, but said nothing.

"Who are you?"

She lent down, so close to him that he could see the flecks of green in her eyes, even in the darkness. How she was floating there, or how she had rescued him never occurred to him to ask. He was too captivated by her beauty, her ethereal grace, the way her face was curtained by the glowing gold locks. She was mere inches now, and despite the freezing temperature of the water, his whole body felt flushed with heat from the longing in her eyes. A soft hand came out to stroke his cheek and he shuddered, leaning into the touch. Not a vision, not his mind playing tricks. She was real.

"Please," he whispered, not even sure what he was asking, if it was her name, her purpose for saving him, or if he was just begging her to continue touching him like he meant something to someone.

Against all expectations, she brushed her lips against his, and his eyes shuttered closed against his will. For the barest hint of a second her lips pressed against his, filling him with _need_ like he had never known before. And then... nothing.

But before he could open his eyes, before he could beg for her to stay, he heard a voice, like the whisper of the wind, saying, "Find me."

And just as mysteriously as she arrived, she was gone.


	2. Part 2: Letting Go

When the Coast Guard had finally found him, he had been clinging to the rubble of the ship (oddly enough the very same part of the railing he had clung to the first day he boarded) for a couple of hours. His body was exhausted, after all, he had survived an explosion and a near drowning, but he was stubbornly hanging on. His mental and emotional state, however, was a different matter entirely.  

“Sir?” The man with the crew cut was asking. Killian blinked and looked up, not really seeing him. “Can I get you anything?” The search-and-rescue ship bobbed thrice in quick succession as it crested over a few large waves, remnants of the storm that had destroyed the _Rum Runner_. A week ago, Killian would have been clutching onto whatever solid surface he could have found and trying not to wretch over the side. Now, he almost welcomed the turbulent motions of the sea.

It wasn’t lost on him that he was finally cured of his fear of water once and for all. The medic was still staring at him like he was worried Killian would shatter like fine china at any moment.   Maybe he was right to. He wondered if he opened his mouth if what would come out would resemble a scream or a laugh at this point. Instead, Killian opted to shake his head.

“Are you sure you aren’t in any pain?”

 _Pain, what a laugh! I’ve known pain you can’t even fathom._ “Aye,” he croaked, caught off guard by the way his voice sounded so foreign to his ears. _Pull it together, Jones, or they’ll section you and then you’ll never be able to find her._ The voice sounded eerily like Liam’s.

How could he though? Inside, he felt like his tenuous hold on reality was slipping though his fingers faster than sand.

_Find me._

Two words. All it had taken to completely unhinge him.

What had she meant? If it had been a dream, a miraculous vision, his guardian angel, or any other once in a lifetime experience, then perhaps he could have resigned himself over to that of lucky bastard. But her words had meant something more. They had given him the faintest, slimmest glimmer of hope that he might see her again.

“Sir?” The man was still hovering over him, his chiseled features etched in worry. Hadn’t he ever seen a man experiencing a total reordering of his soul?  

Killian’s unfocused stare turned rapidly into a sharp glare. “I’m fine.” _Kindly bugger off, mate, I’m having a moment here._

“With all due respect, sir, you’ve been through a traumatic experience. You may be in shock. Perhaps, if you could tell me what you remember, it might help.”

Killian bit back on the mirthless laughter that threatened to escape, and wrapped himself tighter in the blanket. _Sure, let me tell you about the fact that I’m only alive because the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen appeared out of nowhere and saved me. Then, she has the nerve to vanish without telling me how on bloody earth to find her, that is assuming that I’m not just hallucinating._

Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? It wasn’t that he thought she might be real, it was that he was terrified that she _wasn’t_. He was absolutely petrified over the fact that any second now he could wake up in a hospital bed and be told it was all just a dream.

“What happened to the others?” Killian asked suddenly, startling the medic with his announcement. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting Killian to start talking any time soon.

“The crew of your boat? They were picked up about half-an-hour before we found you. They were taken back on another ship soon after. Though,” and here the man stopped to scratch his jaw, “not before they insisted we scour the area. They barely let us take them on board, insisting you were still alive.   One of them, Big something, called you a tenacious old pirate, said you’d never give up without a fight.” The medic chuckled and shrugged. “Guess they must have been right.”

Upon hearing this, Killian was left speechless.  It was a hell of a compliment. How was it that three men he barely knew thought he was worthy of such praise?  Why did they care at all? They didn’t owe him anything. Maybe it was a guilty conscious thing. Maybe it was just them doing their jobs. Surely it couldn’t be because they had thought of him as a friend, as someone worth something. Killian hadn’t mattered to anyone for a very long time.

Not since he was pulled from an early grave by an angelic savior.

The medic seemed to sense that Killian was in no immediate danger to himself, but that he really wasn’t in the mood to talk. He moved away, not far enough for Killian to be left alone, but at least enough to give him some breathing room. Killian shrugged the blanket around closer, blocking out the evening chill and tried to keep his thoughts focused on the roar of the boat engine and the jerky bounce of the craft as it sped closer to shore. At least those things were solid, easy to dissect. He absolutely refused to think about what would happen once all of this was over.

Unfortunately, it was over far too quickly for Killian to process. Arriving at the Saint Augustine Medical Center, he was treated for a concussion, sea water ingestion, mild hypothermia, and some second and first degree burns. He was treated and released within two days. Two days after that, he was on a plane back home.

Through it all, his thoughts never strayed too far from a pair of striking jade eyes hiding a sadness that touched his soul. He should have been focusing on getting back to normal, to returning to his old life. But instead of facing reality, he found himself growing more and more obsessed over his ethereal savior each day.   He wasn’t entirely surprised. He was always a bit pig-headed about something once he got an idea into his head.

Over the last several years, Killian was certain his tenuous hold on his sanity would snap at some point. With what he had suffered, it would make sense. But that demand of hers, despite making him feel a level of determination bordering on psychotic, made him feel steadier than he could ever remember being. She needed him to find her. She wanted him. And he wanted her. His goal now was clear.

He didn’t know how or why, but he would find a way.

………………….

Home. Never had that word felt more false upon his tongue. His apartment in New York was not home. It was a shelter, a domicile to rest in, but not a home. Killian hadn’t had a home since he was a child. He had thought for a long time that he could make a home with Milah, but she was too free-spirited, always wanting to go new places, see new things. How he had ever talked her into marriage was still a mystery to him. But she had made him feel happy and fortunate. He always assumed that was home enough.

Returning to his previous life was like a daily exercise in torture. Nothing had changed about it, except him. Walking into his apartment felt like walking into a hotel room. Sleep was difficult at best, always filled with the same dreams. He was unsettled, feeling restless in his own skin. For days, he paced his apartment, furious obsessing over her features, the exact shade of green in her eyes, the depth of the clef in her chin, the number of freckles on her cheek. He attempted (poorly) to sketch her, to piece together her face from a million others, and each time he came up short. Nothing else mattered to him.

He scanned every face he saw on the street, poured over millions of images on the net, only to come up empty handed every single time. After all, how was he supposed to find a woman whom he knew nothing about? He didn’t have a name, an address, a scrap of paper with a phone number… _nothing._ All he had was a vague hope that one day, he would just see her (standing across the street, at the counter of a coffee shop, in line at the grocery store) and all of this would just finally make sense.

 _She might not even be real_ , his traitorous thoughts whispered back to him.

She was real, he raged, simply because he needed her to be.

Nevertheless, a search of this magnitude required resources and his were rapidly running out. He knew he would have to go back to his life at some point. The thought of going back to that office now, though, left him with a taste like bitter almonds on his tongue.   But he knew he had to. He had to do it for her.

It took him two full weeks before he could even think about returning to work. His friends and co-workers had all been informed of his accident, and everyone he met gave him the same pitying look that made him want to curse at them and run them through with a sword. Of course, he didn’t do any of those things, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to. It was a miracle he didn’t need dental work after all the jaw clenching he had done in an effort to keep his mouth shut, when all he wanted to do was to scream.

It was a daily battle with his own thoughts. A civil war with his sanity.

How much longer could this go on? _Until I find my Swan,_ he answered.

Since he didn’t have a name for his savior, he decided to give her a nickname, because referring to her as ‘mystery girl,’ ‘my angel,’ or ‘the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,’ never had felt right. Like everything else about her, the perfect name suddenly just came to him right when he needed it most. He had been remembering the way she glided over the water, as if it were solid glass, or as if she was weightless. Her movements were so graceful, he was reminded of the swans that gathered in a pond near his apartment. So he started referring to his mystery woman as Swan. It still made him smile every time.

His work mates, even though they tried to be supportive, clearly thought he was crazy, blaming it on stress from the accident. Before the trip, he had been a jovial fellow, masking his pain with witty comments and a well-practiced smile. It had served him well his whole life. After all, what better way to distract someone from trying to get to know the real you, then to always show them exactly what they wanted to see—a charming gentlemen, completely at ease with his life?

Since his return, however, he found the mask didn’t quite fit as well anymore. Often, they caught him staring at his computer screen, his face devoid of any happiness, and incoherently mumbling about swans. They were deeply troubled. Probably because he wasn’t doing his job as well as he used to and it was hurting them.

Repeatedly, he was told to see a psychiatrist until he was nearly ready to scream from all their fake sincerity. And then, one night about four months later, it all came to a head.

“You need to talk to someone about this, Jones,” Robin stated, while Killian was busy drowning himself in his third whiskey of the evening. Even drunk, though, Killian couldn’t help but look up at the door to scan the faces of each new patron entering the bar. None of them were who he was looking for. They never were.

Killian scowled at his glass, having to forcefully remind himself that Robin was just trying to save his job and that punching him would very likely end with him ending up in jail and would mean another set-back in his search. “I’m fine, _mate_ ,” he replied instead, giving the man his cheekiest smirk, and knowing Robin wasn’t going to fall for it.

Robin sighed, “You know, we’ve left it for months, but clearly you aren’t getting over what happened to you.”

Killian clenched his jaw and tried very hard not to scream that getting over it was the last thing he wanted to do. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry my reticence is bothering you. Perhaps you should take your drinking elsewhere.”

“Jones, I—“

“Don’t. Just leave me be and let me deal with this in my own way,” Killian growled, feeling a tightness in his chest he couldn’t explain.

Clearly wanting to argue that Killian was not dealing with it at all, Robin chose instead to nod curtly and asked the bartender for his check. _That’s right, go on. I didn’t think you were a friend._ When Robin was gone, Killian let out a slow breath and asked for his own check, rubbing his chest hard to try and alleviate the pain.

He ended up calling in sick the next two days and working his way through two bottles of spiced rum before he could numb out the ache.

It was another two nights before he realized what had caused it. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, what rational part was left was screaming at him to drop this fruitless endeavor and get back to reality. It was screaming that Robin had been right, that they had all been right. He was going crazy and needed to get help before it was too late.

What the rational part of his mind hadn’t yet realized was that it was, in fact, far too late for help.

Every night, he dreamt of his Swan. It felt like his dreams were the only reprieve he had from the pain in his heart. They went beyond just replaying their encounter. In them, he was taking her out on dates, watching movies together, cooking her a meal. Mundane, trivial things that he had often taken for granted when he was with Milah, he now found were far more important to him than he ever believed possible.   He was living a pseudo-life with her in his sleep and he had never felt happier. It was only waking that was painful because he was certain that if he only could find her, he could show her just how much she was coming to mean to him. And if he couldn’t, he thought he might not survive.

………………………..

It took another two months of searching the faces of every blonde he saw in the street, across the room, or standing in a line before he finally just couldn’t go on. The painful longing for his Swan was making his chest feel as though he had left his heart at the bottom of the ocean. Perhaps she had taken it with her when she left. Either way, he knew he had to find a way to move past this or else he might as well have let himself drown that day, because what he is doing now is probably worse than the torture he put himself through after the loss of his brother and Milah. Waking up every day was getting to be so hard, he had seriously considered downing a bottle of sleeping pills and never coming back. Actually, it was the realization, staring down at the jar of little white tablets in his hand, that he was on the border of doing something irreversible that made him see the light.

He was either going to waste his miserable excuse for a life away on a madman’s quest, or he could just give it up. Let it go.

Mike’s words had come back to haunt him in the most painful way possible. He struggled with himself for weeks over the decision, but finally he accepted what needed to be done.  He couldn’t keep living this way.

Early the next morning, he called up the first therapist in the book, a Dr. Archibald Hopper, and made an appointment for Monday afternoon. Oddly, he thought the decision would leave him full of regret and despair, like he had let his Swan down, given up on her. But that wasn’t what he felt at all.

He felt relieved.

And _then_ he felt guilty.

That night, he drank another bottle of rum and cried himself to sleep, her name upon his lips.

Monday was exceptionally warm and sunny, and Killian decided he wanted to walk to Dr. Hopper’s office and take advantage of the sun. It seemed like forever since he had noticed the weather. Spring had melted into summer, and now it was almost autumn already. How had that happened? Was he really so focused on her that he hadn’t noticed anything around him? Feeling more confident than before about his decision, and bolstered by the beauty of the day, his mood upon arrival was better than it had been for the past six months. It was so good, he nearly cancelled the appointment. Instead, he greeted the secretary warmly and took a seat in the lobby to wait on the doctor, a barely-there smile upon his lips.

Dr. Hopper quietly listened as Killian recounted his tale, offering him an understanding smile when appropriate, but his eyes clearly indicated that he thought that Killian had simply imagined the woman and his subsequent actions were bordering on clinically obsessive. Expecting to be reprimanded for his actions, he was shocked when all Dr. Hopper asked him was why he decided to seek the help of a therapist.

Killian sighed heavily and looked at the ceiling, shifting into the couch as if it could swallow him whole. “I called because I realized that what I was doing was no different than when I first board the ship. I was clinging so tightly to the railing that I was making everything worse. Once I let go, I adapted to the boat and the water, and I realized that a lot of my fears were unfounded.”

“The fear of drowning you mentioned?”

“Aye, but not just that fear, I guess.   My fears went beyond just drowning,” Killian focused his thoughts and chuckled. “You know how they say to face your fears in order to overcome them?”

“Yes,” Dr. Hopper replied.

Killian’s laugh grew louder. “Well, I’m pretty sure I’ve been doing nothing but facing them.”

Dr. Hopper smiled sincerely and laughed a little. “I’m glad you are able to see the irony and be able to laugh about it. However, are you really certain that you have faced all of them, that you are overcoming them?”

Killian raised his brow at the man.

“I just mean that if you aren’t being held back, why are you struggling to move on? Why haven’t you been able to ‘let go of the rails’ as you put it, and find happiness in your life?” Killian blanched at the suggestion, feeling his anger rise up defensively. As if sensing his turbulent emotions, Dr. Hopper hastened to add, “I think you’ve done an admirable job of dealing with this. Sure, you’ve been a bit singular-minded over this woman, but most people in traumatic situations can’t even bring themselves to get up every morning and keep going like you have. And not many choose to talk about it so frankly, most will just deny what happened to them.”

“Oh, I’m definitely not in denial, that’s the problem,” Killian stated, staring back at the ceiling.

“Aren’t you?”

“No.” Killian turned to look at the doctor, his gaze sharply focused. “Everything I’ve told you really happened. She was there. She did save me. I did not imagine it.”

Dr. Hopper closed his book and frowned. “Killian, you know that what you are saying isn’t possible. And I don’t think you are in any way delusional. However, that only leaves the logical explanation that what happened to you was a result of stress and extreme conditions. It’s not uncommon for people facing death to imagine a presence with them, guiding them to safety even. I don’t want you to think I’m discounting what you are saying, but I do want you to seriously consider the possibility that your experience might not be exactly the truth.”

It was like he had been doused with ice water. Killian sat rooted to the spot, unable to speak. Once more he was at war with himself, both wanting desperately to believe she was real and waiting for him and wanting to just give in and stop struggling so damn hard.

With that last lingering piece of mysticism, Dr. Hopper concluded the session, asking Killian if he could come back in a week for another meeting. Reluctantly, Killian agreed, though he was certain Dr. Hopper would never believe him about his Swan.  Killian reminded himself it didn’t matter. He was trying to move on after all, and wasn’t this exactly why he had decided to seek help in the first place?

He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely noticed opening the door to Dr. Hopper’s office and stepping through until his body collided with that of the next patient and they both toppled to the ground.

“Fuck,” Killian mumbled, picking himself up and popping his jaw back from the impact.

He heard a soft female voice also cursing. And then he looked down.

And his heart stopped.

It was her. Swan. She was there, sprawled on the floor and glaring in his direction. She hadn’t yet looked up to meet him, seemingly more occupied with the contents of her spilled purse than that of the person who spilled it.

Killian’s mouth went dry and all he could do was clutch at his heart.

“Hey buddy, aren’t you even going to apologize?” She snapped, finally looking up to meet his eye.

And in that moment, everything fell into place.

He heard her sharp intake of breath and saw the flash of recognition in her eyes. “You?” She breathed.

“You,” Killian repeated.

“It…can’t be…” she whispered, rising unsteadily to her feet, never breaking her blinding jade gaze away from his. So softly he almost missed it, she added, “I dreamed of you.”

Killian had no idea how to respond. He was torn between falling to his knees and crying and pulling her into his arms and administering a scorching kiss. All he managed was a broken, “Thank you.”

She knit her brow, obviously confused, “For what? Dreaming of you? That’s a bit egocentric, don’t you think?”

He couldn’t fight back the smile. She was just as feisty in real life as she had been in his fantasies. “Nay, lass. Thank you for saving my life.”

Her whole expression changed, like he had suddenly given her an electric. “ _What did you say?_ ”

Sucking in a breath, he decided that he couldn’t keep the truth from her, even if she ran away. “Six months ago, I was in a boating accident. I nearly drowned. I haven’t a clue how, but you saved my life.”

She started to blink rapidly, as if her eyes were watering. Her mouth fell open but no sound came out.

“Lass?” He stepped closer, smelling the delicate scent of her shampoo.  

She took a step back and shook her head.   “That’s not…that’s not possible. How could you know about that?”

“Know about what?” Killian desperately wanted to reach out and touch her, to pull her closer, anything to stop the fear he saw in her eyes, because he was certain she was ready to run at the slightest provocation. And that was precisely why he hesitated.

“About my dreams,” she whispered.

Killian was about to respond, when suddenly, the door to Dr. Hopper’s office opened and a very confused man stood between them. “Miss Swan? Are you ready for your appointment?”

“Swan?” Killian repeated, and then his face broke into a huge grin.

She looked at him with a deep frown and put her hands across her chest.   “What?”

He had started laughing and found that he couldn’t quite get himself to stop, “Nothing, lass. Nothing. But the fact that your name is Swan is just too bloody much.”

She gave him a look of pure loathing, and he could sense that being made to feel inferior was a sore subject. “Hey, look buddy. I don’t know what your problem is but making fun of my name is—“

“No!” Killian shouted, laughter completely gone now, and his face falling into concern. _Damn, I’ve gone and done it now. She’s about ready to bolt._  “No, that’s not why I was laughing.” He turned to the doctor and said, “You know what you said about irony and accepting the truth? Well, how’s this for irony, doc? My mystery savior, my Swan, as I called her… this is _her_.”

“Wait, what?” Both of them asked together, completely flabbergasted.

Dr. Hopper recovered first, ushering both of them into his office and away from the curious looks of the other patients.

Killian reclaimed his seat on the couch, leaving the Swan girl nowhere else to sit except next to him. So she chose to stand.

Turning back to Killian, Dr. Hopper asked, “Killian, are you telling me that the woman you’ve been imagining, the one who saved you on the ocean, is, in fact, Miss Swan here?”

Killian turned to look at her, really look at her, and nodded. “Yes, absolutely.”

Dr. Hopper looked completely flustered, picking up a file folder and shuffling through some of the papers. “Um, Emma, I know this might seem highly unorthodox, but would you mind if I told Mr. Jones why you have been coming to see me.”

Emma, Killian thinks, her name is Emma.

She huffs indignantly at the suggestion, but then looks Killian in the eye and for a second, he once again sees that spark of recognition there. “Okay,” she concedes softly.

“Mr. Jones, Emma has been my patient for several months with an acute case of insomnia. She has told me that nearly every night for the past six months she has been having extremely vivid dreams about a man. A man she has never met or talked to in any way. She claims these dreams started when she had one particularly disturbing nightmare about a shipwreck and saw this same man drowning.”

Emma collapsed onto the sofa next to him as Dr. Hopper talked. Killian had long since tuned him out, hyper aware of her presence next to him. His fingers twitched, aching with the need to just touch her once and reassure himself that she was truly there.   She steadfastly refused to meet his eyes again and the need for her to really see him was driving him mad. All these months of searching and here she was, sitting next to him, and yet he felt as if she was oceans away.

Dr. Hopper was explaining more about what Emma had dreamed, but he didn’t need to hear him tell her story when he already felt it in his heart and could see it reflected in her eyes. Somehow, someway, they were connected. She had dreamt of him, and he of her, and he knew that destiny or fate or some higher purpose had called them to be together.   But she was so stoic and emotionless, he could tell she was trying to pretend it was all just a hallucination. Well, he’d be a bloody damned fool if he would let her go without a fight.

When the room grew quiet, Killian took the opportunity to say what has been on his heart since she kissed him and breathed new life into his body. “Emma, love, I know you don’t know me, but I feel like I know you. I may not know your address, or where you grew up, or what you do for a living, but I know your heart. I know you’ve been hurt, left behind and abandoned, just like me. I see it in your eyes. I know how lonely you are because I’ve felt the same loneliness in my heart. We are connected, you and I.”

His Swan finally looked at him, but this time, she merely rolled her eyes. She still wasn’t trying to really see him. _Swan, you’ve got to let go of the rails._ “You really believe that we’re soulmates or whatever? Isn’t that a bit ridiculous?”

“Aye, it is. It’s not that I believe in soulmates, Swan. It’s that I believe in _us_ , this bond we share. I knew from the moment I looked in your eyes that we were two parts of the same soul. And I would be eternally grateful if you would give me a chance to know all about the rest of you. What do you say, love? Take a chance on me.”

She studied him for a minute, staring deeply into his blue eyes. He could see a million thoughts fly across her face. He tried to put all his sincerity, all his need for her into his gaze. It must have worked because for the first time since that initial connection, she finally _looked_ at him. Her eyes softened around the edges, the defensiveness in her posture crumbled, and something very much like affection radiated from her.

There was a strangled cough from the other side of the room. Dr. Hopper adjusted his glasses and gave them an apologetic look. “Emma, Killian…I don’t know what all this means. Frankly, I’m just as shocked as you are. But after hearing both of your stories, I have to say I think you two share an amazing connection. I think it would be a shame not to explore it. Now, Killian has declared his willingness to take a chance, but what about you, Emma? What do you want?”

Dropping her gaze, she turned to the doctor. Killian felt as though she took all the warmth of the day with her. She closed her eyes and her brow knit together in concentration.

With a slight smirk, Emma opened her eyes. Lifting a palm, she began to cup his cheek, running her thumb over the small scar there. It was so unexpected and such a tender gesture, his breath caught in his throat. It was like he was drowning all over again, but this time, it was in the deep green pools of her eyes. His mind instantly recalled the way she had touched him those months before, and he knew this was the same love that had magically saved his life. An impossible, improbable, deeper-than-the-deepest-sea kind of love, transcending the limits of reality.

He smiled into her hand and for the first time in years, he felt _whole_. Raising his own hand, he placed it over her cheek so that they were finally connected, flesh-to-flesh and heart-to-heart. Despite his pulse thundering in his veins, at this moment, he was at utterly at peace.

“Okay,” she replied, her face lighting up with a smile bright enough to rival any sunny day.

Killian returned the smile, running his hand around her neck, threading it through her silky soft strands of golden hair and pulling her closer in. He felt as if she had just offered him the sun, moon, and stars. “Okay,” he agreed breathlessly.

There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation as she closed the final distance and joined his lips to hers for a searing kiss. All at once, the ever-present ache in his chest, the one he had carried for so long he didn’t even know he had, was gone. Fireworks exploded in his body, a celebration of the life long journey back to where he belonged. He could almost hear the ghosts of his past bidding him farewell.

Because there, against her lips, in her arms, was his home.

She was his ocean and he was her shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where this whole idea came from, and it is a definite departure from my usual style. Still, I hope you liked it and I thank you for reading. Comments, as always, are welcomed.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


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